


Original Sin

by TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: At the crucifixion, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale, Bad performance appraisals, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley runs a brothel, Disobedience is sexy, Episode 3 Cold Open, F/F, Female!Hastur!?, Fluff and Angst, Here be a dragon, I'm just having fun really, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), It's all a bit Carry On in places, Mutual Pining, No beta but I'm trying my best, Playing about in history, Protective Crowley, Regency contraception, The Arrangement (Good Omens), The author may think she's God (Good Omens), Victorian era, Warrior nuns, and historical inaccuracies, chivalry is dead, eventual (sort of metaphysical) smut, female!Aziraphale, female!Crowley, six thousand year slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: “Good girls go to Heaven, bad girls go everywhere,” Mae WestAs far as disobedience went, Aziraphale had got off to a pretty good start. She’d given away a Heaven issued flaming sword, consorted on Eden’s wall with the demon, Crowley and lied directly to God’s face.Crowley’s scattergun rebellion took a while to mature in to a truly discerning form of focused disobedience, but by the time she tempted Eve with the apple she was nearly ready to go pro.However, disobedience, while it requires some natural talent also needs both courage and patience. You don’t break all the rules to save the world without putting in the study time, after all.Ineffable Wives disobeying their superiors and falling in love throughout history. Because I can.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34





	1. Berkeley Square 2019

As far as disobedience went Aziraphale had got off to a pretty good start. She’d given away a Heaven issued flaming sword, consorted on Eden’s wall with the demon, Crowley and lied directly to God’s face. 

This is also not the first time she has kissed the demon, Crowley. More on that later.

Crowley, on the other hand (she’s the one currently having her short hair combed into chaos by angelic fingers) has always liked to challenge rules. She never stops asking why, although her scattergun rebellion took a while to mature in to a truly discerning form of focused disobedience. By the time she tempted Eve though she was nearly ready to go pro. She just needed to find the right encouragement. The encouragement in question is the angel currently having her hips squeezed in full view of the Berkley Square squirrels.

They’re so entangled that someone should be yelling at them to get a room, except that no one can really see them. No one except the squirrels and one rather puzzled nightingale.

If anyone _could_ see them properly they’d have to go home for a lie down in a darkened room. For the keen eyed and sound of mind there is more to see than two women shaped beings kissing. There’s the faint susurrus of wings, obsidian and amber edged, flicking gently at the periphery of reality. There’s flowers springing into surprised life beneath Aziraphale’s sensible shoes, and out on the road a water main has burst. It will close the area down with emergency pipe maintenance works for three weeks. Every time Aziraphale hears the traffic report on the radio over those weeks she’s going to think of Crowley and smile.

Crowley laughs, fond and euphoric. It’s the grown up sibling of the laugh that followed the story of the rubber duck. She’s a little bit impressed at Aziraphale’s boldness and she can’t believe her own luck. They’re free and they’re together and the world is, give or take some _Just William_ first editions, pretty much as it was.

Aziraphale basks in the afterglow of her demon’s adoration and that special realisation of knowing you’ve done something naughty, but no longer caring if you get caught.

“How long will that miracled reservation last, do you think?” Aziraphale asks, pink cheeked and breathless.

“Exactly as long as we need it to.” Crowley is trying very hard not to smile. She’s still a demon after all and doesn’t want to get into the habit.

“I am feeling quite peckish.”

“So am I.” Crowley nuzzles Aziraphale’s neck.

“Crowley, dearest.” Aziraphale employs her big, hazel, demon smiting eyes to best advantage. “Switching your corporation’s molecular structure about _can_ really work up an appetite.”

“Alright then.”

Aziraphale can’t see Crowley’s eyes, but she can hear them rolling behind her glasses.

“Anything you like,” Crowley adds. “You owe me though.”

Aziraphale lifts herself on to her tip-toes to kiss Crowley’s cheek.

They walk, well one strolls and the other saunters, away arm in arm at peace with each other and themselves. It wasn’t an easy journey to get here though.

Disobedience, while it requires some natural talent also needs both courage and patience. You don’t break all the rules and save the world without putting in the study time, after all.


	2. Heaven and Hell 4004 BC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who was reading this fic, apologies for stopping it for so long, and also for deleting chapters 2 and 3 and reposting them with different content. 
> 
> I believe I've sorted out what I thought wasn't working though, so we should make it to the end this time if you're still interested.

**Heaven 4004BC**

“So, Principality Aziraphale. Would you like to tell me what happened. In your own words of course.” Gabriel smiles

Aziraphale clasps her hands behind her and smiles back.

Neither smile is sincere. The first is meant to be encouraging but comes over as slightly strained, the second is nervous and not helped by Sandalphon coming to join them.

He does not stand next to Gabriel, but just behind Aziraphale’s shoulder so that she is well aware her escape route is blocked. This will become a pattern.

Aziraphale tries not to look directly at the bright whiteness of Heaven surrounding her. “You see, I was guarding the Eastern Gate…”

“Yes,” Gabriel says in a way that he believes is encouraging but succeeds only in derailing Aziraphale’s train of thought.

“Where I was supposed to be,” she continues. “The demon…”

“Crawly.”

“Crawly.” Aziraphale wets her lips. “Yes. Her. Well, she appeared right inside the Garden. Near enough right on top of the tree.”

_Funny thing if we got it both wrong, eh?_

Captivating eyes shining with a curiosity that was almost innocent.

Innocent? Hah! As if a demon could be.

Aziraphale calls her mind back to order before it moves on to the too-red lips of a dazzling, dimpled smile that had done queer, fluttery things to her stomach. The demon hadn’t sewed doubt exactly, but she had forced Aziraphale to give the ground a good watering and lay down some manure.

Ineffable, Aziraphale tells herself.

“The demon entered the garden while you were facing the other way?” Gabriel asks.

“I was guarding the gate, I presumed that meant from things coming in from outside.”

“What things, Aziraphale?”

“Demons.” She studies her feet. Sandalphon’s breath is really quite loud, the fact that he doesn’t have to breathe at all is a sure sign that he’s doing it deliberately.

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” Sandalphon asks.

Aziraphale studies the vast expanse of nothing where the ceiling will one day be. She prefers the heavy breathing all in all.

“Well,” Gabriel manages to draw the word out as long as eternity. Or at least that’s how it feels. “This is quite a setback.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but the flaming sword was mine to do with as I saw fit in Her name?” Aziraphale is all polite modesty. She does not miss the tension that her observation causes in Gabriel’s jaw, or the look that he shoots over her shoulder at Sandalphon.

“I apologise if I misunderstood,” Aziraphale adds, perhaps too sweetly for her own good.

“We will look into the matter,” Gabriel says. “In the meantime, I suggest you get back to your post and maybe trying use your initiative and look both ways.”

“Find where you left that sword, perhaps?” Sandalphon mutters.

“You’ll receive further orders.” Gabriel has already lost interest in her. If only Sandalphon would too.

“Of course. Thank you.”

Aziraphale backs away. Trickier than it appears as she had to accomplish this without backing into Sandalphon.

“Your corporation,” Gabriel says.

Aziraphale stops.

“Can I suggest you think about getting a new one issued? That one doesn’t exactly scream warrior and really, after this whole apple debacle I think the female version is probably not going to have the same, shall we say…”

“Weight,” Sandalphon suggests with helpful malice.

“Yes!” Gabriel claps his hands. “Weight as the male version.”

“Oh?” Bother, she’d just got the hang of this one. Plus, she likes the curves. They’re cosy. There is also slight guilt that if the female version of humanity is to be considered less worthy it’s her fault and she should probably share some of the censure.

 _Nonsense_ , Aziraphale imagines Crawly saying, _Adam had a choice too, didn’t he?_

Still.

“I’ll look into it,” Aziraphale says meekly. She then goes straight back to Earth before anyone can mention her corporation again. 

**Hell 4004 BC**

Crawly has no particular orders to return to Hell so she doesn’t’. Eden has the subdued atmosphere of a party after everyone has left so she went for a swim and sprawls out on a rock to bask in the sun. She likes the Sun. Nice warm, dazzling thing. She’s well on the way to being Earth’s first case of sunburn.

A slight tremor in the earth and a whiff of brimstone is the only warning Crawly has before Hastur casts a rather irritating shadow over her. 

Crawly cracks open an eye. “What’s up, Duke?”

Hastur’s pale lips draw back. Her fingers flex.

Next thing Crawly knows she’s back downstairs and on her knees before the combined forces of upper management while Hastur maintains a death grip on her hair.

Crawly wonders if she could get it cut off? Miracled off? Would it grow back? Much better musing on this than Hastur jerking on it every five seconds while she gets increasingly apoplectic.

“Don’t even know why she got sent up there in the first place!” Hastur yells. “She’s nobody!” She pushes Crawly forward so she bangs her face on the slimy floor. At least it means she’s not getting her hair pulled anymore.

“Precisely because she’s _nobody_.” Dagon half hisses through their barracuda teeth. “Expendable.”

“Thanks,” Crawly lifts herself up and tries for a winning smile.

Beelzebub slouches, drumming their fingers in the arm of their throne. “Silence!”

Everyone falls obligingly silent. Although Hastur continues to wheeze indignantly through her nose while she tries to contain her verbal wrath.

“Demon Crawly! Why didn’t you report back to us?” Beelzebub asks.

“Wasn’t aware that I had to Lord Beelzebub. ‘ _Get up there and make some trouble_ ’ seemed like an ongoing assignment to me. Just because the humans have been kicked out of the Garden doesn’t mean the game’s over, does it? Otherwise why not just wipe them out and start again? The other side is up to something.” She lifts her eyes pointedly upwards. “There was an angel stationed up there to watch them…”

“What angel?” Beelzebub leans forward.

“A warrior. Strong. Honourable. Very good with the fighting.” _Unexpectedly kind and just a little bit daft_. “Took a while to outwit her, I can tell you. But I, er, know her ways now. Know how she works. And I know the humans too.”

Hastur splutters incoherently, but Beelzebub’s habitual death mask expression becomes more focused.

“Shame not to press our advantage.” Crawly tries her winning smile again, and this time it’s near perfect. She keeps it in place because Hell is boring. Just like Heaven really, but darker and damp. Earth is the most interesting thing she’s seen since she was sung into being, and the angel…well, she warrants further investigation too. Almost as good as sun bathing being caught in the brightness of that angel’s smile.

Hastur is busy expounding on all the reasons why sending Crawly back up to Earth is not a good idea. Honestly, a nobody like Crawly should be beneath a Duke of Hell’s notice, but there’s something about Crawley’s snakey swagger that winds Hastur right up.

Hastur is not a big picture demon. Crawly is. Hastur may feel just a little bit threatened.

“I’ll just keep an eye on things,” Crawly interrupts. “Report back to yourselves if a more distinguished demon like, oh, Hastur, is required to manage things.”

Beelzebub inclines their head. “Dagon?”

“Need to redo all the paperwork to get another corporation issued and send someone else up.”

And that decides it. Nobody likes paperwork. Crawly slithers off back to Earth, and she tries not to grin smugly at Hastur as she goes. Tries and fails.


	3. Mesopotamia 3004 BC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawly has a few things to say to God about the flood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm obsessed with them singing at the moment and what that could mean.

It's still raining and although Aziraphale feels damp all the way down to her bone marrow, the scent of that many animals and their associated waste in such a confined space is really starting to get claustraphobic.

She goes up on deck. The animals shiver and draw back as she passes. Aziraphale is a being of love, but love can be a wild, raw thing that if provoked can devour everything in it's path. The humans are not quite as astute and filter her presence straight out of their consciousness unless she choses to reveal it.

Shem, who's on watch, may note things get brighter as Aziraphale comes out on deck. A silvery-gold glow that makes the clouds appear less ominous and the rain less punishing.

Aziraphale stands on the prow, arms wrapped around her ribs and tries not to notice when a particularly human looking piece of flotsam bobs up in the waves below.

She thinks about Crawly.

Had she been referring to the goats? Didn’t matter. _It was the something my lot would do_ that left a bad taste. She doesn’t like thinking of Hell as Crawly’s lot.

And that is a problem.

Aziraphale is a being of love, and when she loves will do anything to keep the object of her affection safe. Not that she loves a demon. Could never love a demon. Barely knows her.

Aziraphale is still performing ethical gymnastics over the issue of Crawly when a distant melody reaches her through the roar of the rain. She instantly recognises the jagged, imperfect voice for what it was. A demon singing. A demon trying to sing celestial harmonies by herself.

Crawly singing.

Aziraphale hops up on to the ark’s railing. Her wings flap into existence to help her balance.

Stupid, feather-brained idiot! Anyone could hear her.

Aziraphale has been ordered to stay with the ark, but there are other angels abroad making sure the storm has done its work. 

Crawly’s voice gets fainter as the ark jumps over the choppy waves. Crawly’s foolishness is not Aziraphale’s problem. She should not question policy decisions or disobey direct orders.

She should go back down below and check on the family.

Two weeks in isolation is apparently enough to pit even the most devout of God’s children at each other’s throats.

As Aziraphale turns her head she catches more of Crawly’s song. Angry and pleading in equal measure. Aziraphale just knows that she can't leave her out there to be soaked or smote.

Not that they’re friends, but she is an angel and a principality. She has an _obligation_.

Aziraphale leaps into the air and is immediately knocked off course by the hurl of the wind. She climbs higher and higher, rain lashing her face. The beautiful, smoke-broken voice is closer now. If Aziraphale blinks away the droplets of rain quick enough she can see a burn of red hair against the black.

“Crawly!”

Crawly turns her head. “Hi! You come to join in?”

“Most certainly not. Stop this.”

Their words are half whipped away by the wind, and muted by the effort it takes to hold a position in this torrent. They’re buffeted back and forth like leaves, circling each other.

“What? You think She can’t take critsicm?” Crawly yells. “Well, no, she can’t. I’m proof of that. But what’s the point of testing them all the time? Why make it all to then wash it away?”

“She can’t hear you Crawly!”

“Oh, she can hear me!” Crawly cackles. “She may not be listening but she can hear me. That’s what omniscient means.”

“Not really.” But before Aziraphale can launch into a correction Crawly is beating her wings again, rising upwards to the clouds. She’s fast, despite the weather, but Aziraphale was built as a warrior. She has strength and stamina. It’s been raining for fifteen days and there’s nowhere to land, so Crawly must have been on the wing for most of that.

They break the cloud cover, bursting into a blanket of starlight. The air is clearer her, but thinner. Crawly stays slightly above Aziraphale, her wings beating in, what at first glance, appears to be slow lazy sweeps but is actually the droop of exhaustion. As soon as she lists Aziraphale pounces. Crawly rears back, slapping her hands away.

“Ger off!” shrieks Crawly. “Don’t need help!”

“Stupid girl, just let me…” Aziraphale gets a brief grip on her shoulder before Crawly twists away. She smacks at Crawly’s flailing hands and their wing tips thrash against each other.

Crawly’s stubborn, but Aziraphale is worse.

“Fine,” Crawly pants. “You win. Happy?” She takes a few deep breaths. Her eyes flutter shut, head droops back and she’s falling.

Aziraphale screeches her name and dives after her. Crawly vanishes as she plummets through the clouds. Aziraphale folds in her wings tight and drops right after her. The cloud clears, and the rain and wind hit her. She wipes the water away. It’s dark and disgusting back down here, but Crawly’s hair streams fire bright. Aziraphale adjusts the angle of her descent, gives two strong beats of her wings and pulls them back in tight. She’s heavier than Crawly too. She falls past Crawly then opens her wings like a parachute, catching the air and stopping her descent. She kicks her feet so she’s the right way up again, and starts to rise as Crawly continues to fall. They collide mid-air, Aziraphale’s arms clinched round Crawly’s waist. Crawly’s soaked. The wet wool of her robes and feathers still dragging them seaward. Aziraphale fights the pull, struggles upwards.

“Dramatic b…b…baby!” She gasps as she slowly gains more height.

Where’s the ark? She throws out her ethereal awareness and then strikes out towards the only living human souls on this divine sea.

“Urgh, what stinks?”

“That would be the excrement. There’s only really time to clean out the stalls once a day, you see?”

Crawly lifts her head. It’s fuggy, but her clothes are angel-miracle dry. She can smell the holy essence of vanilla and cardamom all over herself. So, that would be her that smells then? Still, she’ll get used to it, and won’t offend the angel by pointing out her wrong assumptions.

The angel has perched herself on a hay bale with something small, fluffy and content on her lap. It has a poofy tail, big ears and bigger eyes. It bares its teeth at Crawly. Crawly hisses and bares her teeth right back. She’s not jealous of a rodent. She doesn’t want to be the one curled up in the angel’s lap. The angel smells like baking day.

“Feeling better?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah. I’m not going to thank you.”

“Probably wise.”

“Because I didn’t need help.”

“Of course not. And, just for my own future reference, when would you have needed help, exactly? When you got discorporated by drowning? Or completely obliterated because the archangel Michael had run you through with her flaming sword?” Aziraphale scratches the catty looking rodent behind the ears. It glares at Crawly.

Crawly glares back. She draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. She aches. From her toes, to her scalp and all the way from her sore throat to her wing tips. Aziraphale puts the catty rodent thing down and it ambles away to sniff things. Although it does look back at the angel warily. Very wise. There’s something about Aziraphale that isn’t all sweetness and light. Or at least, it’s a sweetness that can cut and a light that can scorch if left unsupervised.

Aziraphale sits herself in the straw next to Crawly so their shoulders are near touching. She puts her legs out in front of her and adjusts her robes over her calves. Apparently satisfied at last she crosses her hands over her stomach. 

Crawly fidgets.

“You don’t have to stay here, but really, my dear, I must ask that you don’t leave until you’re feeling better.”

“ _My dear_ ,” Crawly mimics. The _ask_ in that sentence was a turn of phrase only. Crawly knows it. She knows that the angel could enforce that politeness if she wishes to, and knowing that does interesting things to Crawly’s nerve endings.

Aziraphale had carried her back here. Carried her back like she weighed nothing at all.

“Where would I go? Not going back to Hell, and in case you haven’t noticed, it’s wet out there.” Crawly smiles, all teeth and contorted lips.

Aziraphale beams. “We could both use the time to rest up then, couldn’t we?”

Crawly nods.

Aziraphale lifts an arm and Crawly lets the aches and the fogginess win. She bends forward so her head rests on Aziraphale’s thighs, then squirms so she can stretch out her legs.

“There’s a good girl,” Aziraphale runs her fingers through Crawly’s hair.

“Oh shut up.” Crawly inhales the soft scent of vanilla and spice before she falls asleep again.


	4. Bethany 33AD

Aziraphale sits with her back against the still warm stone of the house and tries not to feel anything. The setting sun paints the world umber. Inside the Sabbath has started and the candles are being lit. 

Crawly settles on the bench next to her. No, it’s Crowley now isn’t it? The fact that somebody can so blithely change their name bothers Aziraphale. If names inform nature than that implies anything can change what it is just by thinking about it hard enough. What really bothers her though is that she’s impressed by Crawly being brave enough to try and redefine herself like that. 

Crowley, Aziraphale decides to be supportive, has two cups of wine clasped in her elegant hands. She proffers one to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale hesitates.

“It’s been a long day,” Crowley says. “And I know you partake.”

It has and she does. Aziraphale takes the cup and tries to sniff it discreetly.

Crowley smiles her closed mouth let’s-humour-the-angel smile. “As if I would poison you.”

“You could poison my corporation.”

“Nah, I’ve got used to it. Don’t want you coming back as another red head. It’d ruin my aesthetic.” Crowley closes her eyes and tips her head back. Her long legs stretch out so her toes can feel the last of the sun.

Aziraphale takes a sip of wine and tries not to stare. Crowley is so long and comfortable in her corporation, and, bother, it is a corporation that’s very nice to look at. Just, you understand, for the beauty of angles and lines, the way pale skin contrasts with bold hair.

“You helped the mother, I think,” Crowley says without opening her eyes.

Aziraphale’s sip turns to a full gulp. It has been a long day and if they are going to talk about this she needs to take the edge off. Gabriel had given a simple order to watch over the male disciples and keep them safe, but Aziraphale had needed to see the crucifixion. There’d been a beast in her heart that screamed to witness what God had been prepared to do to her son for humanity. 

Peter and all the rest of them were safe. Terrified and bickering about each other’s failures and what to do next, but safe, so Aziraphale left them to it.

Then Crowley turned up at Golgotha, demolished Aziraphale’s calm and left, walking down the hillside to join the group of women at the foot of that central cross. Aziraphale had thought, _I should be there. I should be doing that. I’m the angel. I can’t help him, I’ve been told this has to happen, but I can help them be strong for him._

When one of the few remaining men took Jesus’ mother home, Azirpahale joined them. They recognised her, of course, although Mary didn’t recognise Aziraphale specifically as the presumed inn keeper’s wife who had ushered her into a stable and over seen the birth of the baby who had grown up to die on the cross behind her.

“If nothing else Mary should at least have some dreamless sleep tonight. Is there any more, please?” Aziraphale looks at the bottom of the now empty cup. Crowley clicks her fingers, pulling up the power of Hell to miracle a refill. The taint of Hell doesn’t make the wine taste any worse. If anything it’s slightly less sour. Aziraphale drinks more and then because thwarting Crowley takes her mind off the unending well of a mother’s grief and anger she says, “I noticed you were very familiar with that young lady with the dark hair.”

“Oh, Mary.”

“Another Mary?”

Crowley sits up, her eyes fix on Aziraphale. “Don’t you know?”

“Since the nativity I’ve been told to stay away from things. Above my pay grade, apparently.”

Crowley blinks slowly. “Mary of Magdala. She’s interesting.”

“The one with the perfume? Don’t you dare, Crowley!” This is good. Something to be outraged about is good.

“Heard about that did you?” Crowley shrugs and settles back against the wall, a picture of nonchalance. “She thought of that all by herself, before you go making accusations.”

“The last person you called interesting was Eve, and look how that ended up.” Aziraphale gestures expansively, although a pleasant little garden at sunset fails to make her point for her.

“Not so bad.” Crowley says. “Never was an apple that wasn’t worth the trouble you got into for eating it, in my opinion. And you seem to be enjoying the alcohol well enough.”

That last is a fair point. Still, “Leave her alone, Crowley.”

“What do you care? You didn’t even know who she was until a second ago, and Mary thinks. She asks questions.” Barely concealed excitement colours Crowley’s voice. She still looks relaxed, but there’s a tension in her limbs that suggests alertness.

Aziraphale has come to recognise this as Crowley being excited.

Crowley takes a sip of wine. Her eyes drift sideways to Aziraphale as she says, “We had a nice chat about messiahs and what they are supposed to be and what she thinks might be happening on Sunday morning.”

The words have the weight of a secret, shared between friends.

They are not friends.

Aziraphale’s own eyes narrow. The silence drags on a moment.

“You don’t know? You don’t know why this happened?” Crowley sits up straight, full snake stare on Aziraphale and eyes near bulging.

“To save humanity from sin,” Aziraphale says primly. “Why, what do you know?”

“Oh, if your higher ups haven’t mentioned it then it’s not really my place.” Crowley demurs.

“Cra-Crowley!”

Crowley smiles. It’s a smile filled with the joy of a favour about to be bestowed. Aziraphale tries not to find it charming, or the sense of belonging it gives her. She also tries not to notice the perfume of Crowley’s hair as she leans in, or the rustle of fabric, or the weight of the demon’s hand on her shoulder.

Crowley’s mouth is inches from her own, and then Crowley’s breath tickles Aziraphale’s ear as she whispers.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “How do you know this?”

Crowley pulls back, but she stays very much in Azirapahle’s space. “I ask questions, and I listen to the answers even when I know the person giving them is bullshitting me. And I was specifically discouraged from doing anything that would upset this week’s events.”

“Anything?” Aziraphale clings to her mistrust as a way of keeping her world steady.

Crowley shifts back further. “You didn’t really think Judas was one of ours, did you?”

“And Mary of Magdala?”

“I said, I found her interesting. Plus I am still technically following my original orders of getting up here and making trouble. I like the idea that out of all those pompous preachers it’s going to be the lady who spilt the perfume who’s going to be the inaugural member of a brand new religion.”

“Oh, Lord!” Aziraphale jumps up. The wine cup rolls under a rosemary bush.

“Shh, She’ll hear you. What’s the matter? I thought you’d find it funny.”

“Funny! That’s why I was supposed to be keeping the disciples safe! So they could be at the tomb on Sunday! Oh, they’ve probably all left Jerusalem by now.”

Crowley gets up too. “Look, I didn’t know, Aziraphale. I’ll help you find them, alright? I owe you one, don’t I, from the ark?”

Aziraphale steps back. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m an angel. I would have done that for anyone!”

Crowley’s jaw tightens. “Anyone? Any other demon, do you mean?”

“And what if Gabriel saw us together?”Aziraphale tries to back track.

“What if Gabriel finds you and you don’t know where they are?” Crowley challenges.

“I don’t need your help, Crowley.” Really, Aziraphale feels a bad enough angel as it is. She doesn’t need a demon making in worse.

“Wait.” Crowley grips her shoulders, turns her so they are face to face. “It’s not your fault you weren’t given the whole picture. You were just told to make sure they were safe, yes?”

Aziraphale nods.

“Well, surely the safest place for them to be is a long way from where people are getting crucified?”

“Gabriel will never believe that.”

“I don’t care about Gabriel. You believe it.”

Aziraphale wants to, but anxiety has already bitten her and she needs to fly away now. There might still be time if she’s fast enough. She pulls out of Crowley’s grasp and runs out of the garden. When she gets to the road her wings are drawn into this reality and she flings herself into the sky. 

It takes forever to locate all the male disciples and when Gabriel finds out he seems resigned, as though he’d expected Aziraphale to fail from the start. His understanding frown and heavy signs shrink her down to nothing. By the time he waves her out of his office she feels practically non-existent.

What makes her feel worse is how, beneath the terror of messing up, she’d been pleased that Crowley offered to help her. It was almost like they’d been part of the situation together. Which is ridiculous. Crowley is a demon. Still, Aziraphale tucks the memory carefully away in her box of things that she does not want to think about. It’s been four thousand years, and it’s getting quite full.


	5. Rome 41AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wine is drunk, boundaries are tested.

A respectable Roman woman should not be ordering house brown in an establishment like this. Then again, Crowley doesn’t quite read as a respectable Roman woman. She looks fashionable and expensive, but there is a whiff of the Suburra about her that she doesn’t completely want to hide. No one quite knows how to look at her, or address her and, agent of chaos that she is, she quite enjoys that.

And for those citizens who are brave enough to proposition her, well, that’s what Aloe and Vera are for. They lurk as well as a Duke of Hell. Bronze muscles and heavy brows that scream don’t fucking mess loud enough for even the most entitled patrician to hear.

Crowley is rather proud of them.

Her moping at the bar is interrupted by a young, black woman in white. She's the only person who manages to eye Crowley’s two heavies with anything less than respect. In fact, the eyeing she is giving them suggests she could take them both on, enjoy it, and have energy left for dessert. Satan’s sake, Aloe is actually blushing.

“Can we help you?” Crowley snarls. Despite her jagged nerves and her itchy fingers Crowley doesn't curse the girl into space. 

Here's why: Crowley's developing an awareness of Aziraphale's style, the subtle traces of her grace that each miracle leaves behind. Crowley tells herself she is not hunting down that scent of vanilla and cardamom, is not disconcerted when it adapts to the times and starts to smell of rose oil. 

The petulant human before her, holding out a scroll, is soaked in Aziraphale's ethereal scent. The brooches holding her dress closed at the shoulders are shaped like wings.

Subtle, Crowley thinks, but she reads the scroll and follows the girl to one of the nicer districts of Rome. She's on edge when she steps in to the shady atrium. The home of the enemy has frescoes and mosaics that are about fifty years out if date, but you can't see most of them behind the clutter. It's only been eight years since Bethany, but the angel is a magpie, it seems. Bronze statues and marble busts litter surfaces. Something that looks like a death mask is propped against the wall by some jade jewellery. And the scrolls! How would a creature, even one with 900 eyes have time to read all those?

"This way," petulant human says pointedly. 

Crowley slides her glasses back into place and follows her out on to a terrace. 

Aziraphale reclines by an ornamental pond beneath some olive trees. The sun picks its way through the leaves to light up her copious curls and creamy skin so that she glows. She is absently sucking honey from her fingers while her nose is buried in a scroll. She looks pampered with both stomach and mind well fed.

Crowley makes herself sneer. 

"Do your litter bearers need anything?" Petulant human asks. 

It isn't much of a temptation, barely any effort at all. "I'm sure you could think of something to give them." Then Crowley banishes the human from her thoughts because Aziraphale lifts herself up on an elbow. She's smiling, no beaming, at Crowley with honey glazed lips and it batters all Crowley's irritation to dust. She nearly smiles back. 

"Just because I’m a demon doesn’t mean I’ll come running every time you summon me," Crowley grumbles. 

“You are still a demon then?” Aziraphale's smile wavers slightly. 

Crowley can't help but blink at the stupidity of that question. "What else would I be? An aardvark?" 

Aziraphale's smile dims further, she looks away. 

Has she not seen that Jesus's death served only to give humans another reason to fight with each other? Did she honestly think it'd make a blind bit of difference to Crowley's lack of grace, unforgivable that she is? It's irritating, and also pathetically sweet. Mostly irritating though. 

Aziraphale sits up, flashing a glimpse of two sweetly curved ankles. "Well, fancy a nibble? Since you're here."

Crowley focuses on the plate being offered and not her adversary's flesh. 

“I have this fabulous cook called Petronius who does wonderful things with oysters.” The smile is back, slightly less sure of itself, but no less hopeful.

Looks like Petronius is the only slave put to any use judging by the number of dishes laid out, and the deplorable state of the garden. 

“I’ve never eaten an oyster.” Crowley unleashes her limbs on the couch next to Aziraphale. She takes care to reveal slightly more than her ankles, but if Aziraphale notices she hides it well. 

“Well, let me tempt you…oh, that’s your job isn’t it?" Aziraphale turns a perfectly flustered pink.

Daft little angel, what is she up to? 

"Well." Aziraphale puts the dish of oysters down in front of Crowley and pours her a cup of wine. "Try them with this. Really complements them."

Crowley eyes the oysters with suspicion. She sniffs the wine. 

"Oh, really." Aziraphale rolls her eyes. 

Crowley grins sips the wine. It isn’t bad. Cool and fresh. A pleasant counterpoint to the sun’s heat. 

Aziraphale wiggles closer and puts her hands in her lap. “So, why are you in Rome?”

Ah, so they are going to talk business. For a minute there it was almost like this was a social call. “Popped in for a quick temptation.”

Caligula’s court had been depressing. Jesus's execution is still raw on Crowley's skin and humans are still swanning around treating each other like disposable demons. The nature of the quick temptation is grating on her too. Caligula is a beast who really needs no encouragement from Hell. Crowley had taken one look at the writhing bodies on display and decided there was absolutely nothing she could do that he wouldn't think of himself. 

Aziraphale coughs delicately in to her hand and shifts her shoulders. "I had wondered if you were here to see Mary, you know, the one from Magdala?"

"Mary?" Crowley asks. "Why would she come straight to the lion's den?"

"I've really no idea, but the archangels have lost track of her it seems." Aziraphale picks at her belt.

"Don't see why they'd be interested." Crowley is good at both reclining and nonchalance.

"Well, she was the inaugural member of a new religion, which was rather your fault as I recall."

"Is this an interrogation, Aziraphale? Are you, in fact, interrogating me?" The idea is laughable, and also quite worrying. Crowley was enjoying wasting time and wine with the only other being on Earth as old as she was. If this was the way things were going to go then they may as well start discorporating each other and be done with it.

"No. No!” Aziraphale throws up her hands “This is a conversation! And I hope it remains a polite one."

Crowley settles, but her feathers are still ruffled. "Excuse me, Aziraphale, but if you don't mind me asking, did you lure me here under false pretensssesss?" 

"No, of course not. Heaven wouldn't expect me to find her given what happened with the disciples.” Aziraphale sighs. “I just… Well, after what you've said I've been listening more, don’t want to be left out of the loop again, so to speak, and I thought you might know."

Crowley knows. She knows about a moonless night and a boat, and Mary having to be helped in to it because she was too cumbersome and awkward by then. Crowley knows about a blessing she didn't think she could do, didn't ever intend to. 

Demons are not beings of love. It has been burned out of them. No system is entirely perfect though. And what would the world be if creatures couldn't change, couldn't learn? 

Crowley is surprised that she wants to tell Aziraphale about this, both the escape and the blessing. Her reactions from Bethany though are a blaze of warning light. They aren't friends. Not really, despite how cosy this set up is. However, Crowley doesn't want to lie either. 

"I don't think I'm going to tell you."

Aziraphale's face falls, but there's still a calculating glint in her eye as she processes the words unsaid. Crowley holds her tongue, and Aziraphale's gaze. She knows how to keep silent. Aziraphale shrugs, resigned. "Probably for the best."

They drink more wine.

"So what was your quick temptation?" Aziraphale asks when they're a good way through the second jug of wine. Aziraphale has wriggled round so they are now stretched out face to face. Crowley is still propped on her elbow, but Aziraphale is laying on her front, chin on her hands and delectable ankles waving languorously in the air. 

Aziraphale pops another date in her mouth and sucks her thumb while looking at Crowley. 

"Lust," Crowley’s mouth says without permission.

Aziraphale lifts her eyebrows, but doesn't remove her thumb. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks. 

Crowley gulps her wine. "Lust, lust, lussst. You know how it is, right? I said, there's six other deadly sins, you know? I'm a craftsman. Woman. Demon. But every time I put on this corporation it’s like downstairs forget I've got a brain and four thousand years of experience.”

Aziraphale nibbles her lip. She glances up at Crowley, her struggle dances across her face. 

Crowley can be patient. She knows how to hold a silence. 

"Can I tell you what Gabriel said to me the other day?” Aziraphale whispers.

“Please do.” And if it had been anything remotely like a proposition Crowley knows she'll be ready to exact vengeance. Just because she shouldn’t be entertaining lustful thoughts about this angel doesn’t mean anyone else can.

“Gabriel says it's a good job I look matronly! Can’t go around inspiring naughty thoughts in the righteous if I look like someone’s mother!” The words rush out and Aziraphale scoops up her wine as though drinking will drown them. 

Crowley is momentarily derailed by the thought that Gabriel is being so unkind because of his own naughty thoughts about Aziraphale. Matronly isn’t far off the mark, but matronly doesn't automatically mean unattractive. Crowley isn't aware of it yet, but she is already compiling a mental list of all the parts of Aziraphale she'd quite like to lick honey from. 

“I'd get naughty thoughts about you, if you’d let me.” Crowley immediately buries her nose in her own wine cup.

“Oh!" Aziraphale's cheeks darken. "That's jolly kind of you to say so.”

“No it isn’t, I’m a demon. I’m tempting you to pride. You know, in your appearance.” Crowley waves one hand in the general direction of Aziraphale’s bosom and drinks more with the other.

Aziraphale continues to smile. “I think you look lovely too. And you’re crafty, and wily and very good at your job. Very tempting. Tempty.”

They pretend not to look at each other over the stuffed dormice. Aziraphale pours more wine. They drink it down quicker than they should. 

They drink some more until Aziraphale lifts the wine jug and when she tilts it nothing comes out. "Goodness. Have we drunk all of it?" 

Crowley drains her cup. "We have now!" 

"I'll get Lucia to bring us some more." Aziraphale sits up. It involves a great deal of stretching and wiggling, and tugging fabric back into place.

"Miracle some up." Crowley’s throat has gone dry.

"I can't do that. One must keep up appearances when living with humans." It's said very definitely, as though there is no other reason at all. None. 

Crowley narrows her eyes. "No humans here to see."

"That’s not the point. I must maintain good habits and not be frivolous with my miracles.” Aziraphale says with puzzlement, and just a touch of sadness.

“Frivolous?” Crowley probes.

“I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you?”

Crowley shrugs as though it’s nothing. As though she isn’t affronted by the dismissal or angered by the idea that Heaven is doing something that makes Aziraphale sad. She sneers and sits up too, all the better to be dramatic with her hand gesture as she uses one of her own miracles to refill the wine jug. 

Crowley’s ire vanishes when she catches the way Aziraphale is looking at her like she hung the stars. Which Crowley may have done, pretty sure it was something to do with stars. Not the point, the point is Aziraphale’s wide, dewy-eyed gratitude. It creeps up to Crowley and makes her wish she’d really performed and miracled up a posher vintage.

Aziraphale sips. Her eyes close and she hums, deep in the back of her throat. “Oh, that is good. Thank you, my dear.”

_My dear._

Crowley is nobody’s dear. Has never wanted to be until right this minute. Now she’s never wanted anything more.

“Salright.” Her cheeks are warm from wine and sun, and praise. Oh Heaven, she may even be blushing.

Aziraphale is blushing right back at her. She turns her eyes away, takes another drink, but her gaze travels back to Crowley over the rim of her cup.

Crowley is particularly sensitive to lust at the moment. She’s been enduring whiffs of it all night, but she'd presumed it was from the humans, or her own. This is definitely Aziraphale though. How very unexpected, and interesting. Crowley shifts closer, right to the edge of her couch so she can feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s skin.

The wave of Aziraphale's desire at their closeness nearly knocks her back. She's looking at Crowley all curious and tipsy. Crowley knows nothing will happen, not with inhibitions so thoroughly drowned. That doesn't, however, mean she isn't going to play. 

“I had a terrific time tonight.” Crowley reaches out so their fingers touch. “Have to do it again?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes darken. Want ripples through the ether making the leaves above them rustle urgently. Aziraphale looks up, lips parted in surprise. Crowley trails her fingers over the back of Aziraphale's hand.

Aziraphale’s attention snaps back to Crowley. “Oh, we shouldn’t…” but she has already moved her arm slightly, offering up the delicate inside of her wrist, her elbow. She shivers beautifully as Crowley teases her. 

“Isssit nissse?” Crowley’s snake tongue gets the better of her. But it is nice, this gentle softness beneath the pads of her fingers. 

Aziraphale closes her eyes and bites her top lip as she turns her face away. Recoiling and offering at the same time.

Hurts that, just a bit, if Crowley's honest. She can be a little bitch about this too though. Crowley leans forward, dipping her head while her thumb still circles on Aziraphale's arm. She blows gently at the pale ringlets behind Aziraphale's ear. 

Aziraphale bites her lip harder, but doesn't quite cut off her moan. Crowley wants to lick her neck, bite it. Leave her dark, dirty mark dark on that perfect white throat. 

Instead she murmurs, “I'll give you whatever you want, but the bargain is you watch me do it.”

Aziraphale screws her eyes shut tighter. 

Crowley can hold a silence, even when it's burning her up. She waits. And waits.

“See you later then, Aziraphale.” Crowley slips away. She takes the wine jug with her.

Aloe and Vera both look a little drunk and the worse for wear. Bless Crowley’s ill-advised tempting, neither of them will be good for anything when they get home. She'll have to slink off to her private bath house and take care of herself **.** That’s not the real problem. The real problem will be trying not think of ringlets and honey while she does it.


End file.
